


Summer Prompts 2017

by tainry



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Hatchlings, Multi, Relationship angst among the resurrected, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2018-12-05 19:12:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11584377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tainry/pseuds/tainry
Summary: More ficlets set in Playswithworms' Project: Reset!verse!





	1. Campfire

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Project Reset: The Prequel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071183) by [playswithworms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/playswithworms/pseuds/playswithworms). 



> Only Project: Reset canon if PWW says they are! ;D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will teaches the hatchlings about fire!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barricade's Horde is second instar, Galvatron's lot have been spawned but not yet hatched. So this is probably the year after the events of the Prequel.

“All right,” Will said, making sure he had at least half the hatchlings’ attention. “We start with kindling. Small things that burn easily…” For at least the twelfth time he wondered if this was such a good idea. Teaching little kids how to start fires. These were all super-smart little kids, though, and they couldn’t be burned by ordinary flames. There wasn’t much inside the _Retribution_ that was flammable either. He would just have to have a very serious talk with Annabelle, later. 

He formed dry grass and leaves into a little pile. There wasn’t much breeze, but the ring of rocks he’d set up earlier served as a boundary. Fourteen pairs of curious optics watched as he lit a match and held it just in the pile, the first blue wisps of smoke curling free. Several hatchlings sniffed the air, interested by the sulfur. Annabelle wrinkled her nose, but the Cybertronians ate the stuff. Another warning to add to the list. Please don’t eat the matches. “Once the kindling has caught, add a few twigs. Then small sticks. Then bigger sticks.” Once enough material was burning, he leaned down and blew life into the flames. 

“Human magic!” Gasket said, bouncing up and down. He had lately consumed a steady diet of fairy tales from many cultures – human and otherwise. 

“No,” said Perceptor. “Physics. But it is true that we have had little experience with this particular form of rapid oxidation.” 

Will smiled, adding one of the smaller logs to the fire. Soon their little campfire crackled merrily, yellow-orange light dancing on the hatchlings’ plating and off the points of the adults’ armor, who were sitting farther back, optics glowing in the blue evening. Will settled beside Annabelle and Sarah. Little Justin was asleep in his sling in Sarah’s lap. Annabelle already had three marshmallows skewered on a length of unbent coathanger wire, though Sarah had suggested to her that it was better to wait until the fire was down to coals. After a few marshmallow torches she’d figure it out herself. 

The hatchlings squeaked and beeped with excitement as Annabelle blew the en flambé treats out, frowning at the blackened exteriors. She tried to pull them off, but just got the outsides, leaving partly melted inner marshmallow blobs still on the wire.

“I’ll eat those if you don’t want them,” Will volunteered, leaning close. 

“Ew,” said Anna, handing them over. Will crunched them down, eliciting a wrinkled nose even from Sarah.

“Charcoal’s good for you,” Will said. Hoist clapped a hand over Perceptor’s mouth to prevent an exposition on the human digestive tract and the difference between charred marshmallows and “activated” charcoal. 

Annabelle held the marshmallow blobs toward the fire again, not as close this time. The melty surface dried somewhat but was taking a long time to develop a nice brown color – a time made longer by the fact that Anna kept bringing them up to her face to check their progress. Annabelle wasn’t exactly patient, but she was dogged, like her father. Eventually her desire to eat the marshmallows won out and she mashed the lightly toasted bits into her mouth. The hatchlings had eaten before the fire-building activity had begun, but now there were protests. They wanted treats, too!

“No marshmallows!” Barricade growled. He didn’t even want to imagine what getting the gooey sugary gunk out of their faces and intakes and whatever else would entail. Washing various stickinesses off their outsides was bad enough!

“No,” First Aid agreed. Fortunately, Hoist had come prepared, and now passed around little crinkly bags of fluffy aragonite crystals. The same “popcorn” they’d grown from dolomite pieces set in vinegar the week before. This resulted in aragonite crumbs _everywhere_ but at least it wasn’t sticky. 

The hatchlings returned to watching the flames in fascination. Suddenly, Birdy Boo bounced in close and made a grab, trying to catch them, sticking both talons full in the fire. A circle of sharp invents came from the adult robots, and hands reached for him, (Sarah gasped, but restrained herself to only a hand curled protectively around Annabelle’s shoulder.) Birdy waved his talons around but soon realized the flames were something that couldn’t be caught, like Frenzy’s laser pointer. 

Not to be outdone, Gasket stuck his entire helm in the fire, giggling as they tickled, though he quickly squinched his optic shutters closed. 

“Gasket, please be careful,” First Aid said. Gasket sat back, warbling in amusement. “And the rest of you,” he continued, for the other hatchlings were all now sticking their talons in the fire, enjoying the warmth but also to see if they could get the adults to make that whooshing sound again, “please remember not to touch the humans or anything else until your talons have cooled down, ok?” 

Perceptor and Beachcomber were ready with a whole tray full of different materials to experiment with. Stick talons in fire, touch paper, wood, dry leaf, green leaf, tomato, potato, ball of steel, plastic ball, ice, cloth, wax candle, aluminum, raw hot dog, etc…

Should I remind Annabelle to be careful of them? Will wondered. They were so small, and they would never hurt her on purpose, but they were very young. He reminded himself that they had not so much as scratched Anna or Sarah or Phyllis or the cows, or the cats… The hatchlings were understanding “hot” and “burn” very well already. Ultra Magnus' distress as the hot dog sizzled in his little talons… No, they’d be all right. 

By the time their small fire had burned down to coals, it was full night and the hatchlings clung sleepily to the adults’ chestplates, several of them already in recharge. 

Annabelle very carefully put three more marshmallows on her coathanger wire and held them over the embers. Too far away at first, but now she was being careful, bringing them closer and closer in very small increments. Will and Sarah exchanged a grin over her head. Soon, she had at last the golden brown prize, and ate them with gusto, getting strings of melted goo all over her lips and chin. Sticky hands exchanged wire for a damp washcloth. 

“Time for bed,” Will said.

“Awww,” Annabelle said, but she saw some of the hatchlings’ optics were still lit and she wanted to show them what a good big sister she was, so that was all she said. She followed her mother and little brother into the _Retribution_ , to the spare room that at the moment was kitted out as a human-sized living space. 

“I’ll make sure the fire gets put out properly,” Hot Spot assured them, as Will, yawning himself, got up and stretched. 

“Thanks, Hot Spot.” Will grinned, following the human component of his family. Firetruck. Of course he would.


	2. Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to Lake Michigan! Fifteen miles of beaches! Ducky goes for a swim!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barricade's Horde still second instar here. I think the first four chapters are all pretty close together, timewise. The summer after _The Prequel_. :D (Last chapter will be another big jump in the timeline, though...::wink wonk::)

Beachcomber kept a particular eye on Ducky. The hatchling stood utterly still, pedes curled into the sand, gazing out at the horizon, water and sky meeting in a hazy line far, far away. Sunlight glittered on the water, sparkling in the breaking waves – small rollers compared to ocean waves, but plenty big to a second instar hatchling. Oblivious to Squiggles and Pingback galumphing by – the sand, “singing,” making _thoomp thoomp thoomp_ sounds as they went – and the brisk wind, and even the temptations of building a sandcastle, Ducky watched only the water. Like a sleepwalker, he took slow, unheeding steps down the beach.

He paused in the surf, getting used to the way the waves rocked him, and the pull of the retreating water underneath. Cold. Sun warm, water cold. It felt odd, but kind of interesting. Ducky dug his pedes into the sand, anchors against the waves. 

A _big_ wave came in! Ducky almost kept his balance, but just as he tottered in the backwash another wave hit him and he tumbled under into the turquoise world beneath the surface, spluttering a little before he got his vents clamped shut. Hands caught him and lifted him into the air.

“Okay, bit?” Beachcomber asked, fields calm, but a little flutter going at the edges of his visor. 

“Pond!” Ducky chirped, blinking water out of his optics. “Big pond!” He wriggled to be set down, and Beachcomber did, wading a few more steps out past the surf and crouching down, releasing the little fish-botlet on the sandy bottom. Ducky swayed, still feeling the motion of the waves above, but now he could see down, down the shallow slope, into the deep blue beyond. _Pond!_ he transmitted in a whisper, a basic glyph of happiness alongside. 

_Sure is,_ Beachcomber agreed. Impressed that Ducky already knew, perhaps instinctively, that vocalizers didn’t work as clearly underwater. Basic ones didn’t, though Beachcomber had known mechs who understood how to mod their voices effectively. He kept a running scan on Ducky’s core temperature as the hatchling began to fearlessly bound across the lakebed, giggling at glimpses of fish, but optics drawn ever to the depths. _Well,_ he sent to First Aid, _if we had any doubts about this one being an aquatic…_

First Aid laughed. _Good. There haven’t been that many._

_Doubts? Or aquatics?_

_Both!_

On the shore, Bobby Epps watched the hatchlings and Annabelle and his youngest two daughters playing in the sand like any other kids. Plastic buckets and shovels, swimmies, pool noodles, found sticks and water-smoothed rocks and waves washing away elaborate engineering masterpieces. He had nagging doubts about this field trip. Oh, they had portable security fields up, and sat-surveillance was diverted, and this was one of the lesser-known sections of the State Park, and they’d gotten all the special permissions. Perceptor and Beachcomber had cleared the dunes of the weird tree-ghost sinkholes that had swallowed a little boy some years back, and they had made sure there were no rip currents, and no storms at the other end of the lake. All the bases covered. Sure. Prime was still hedging around the subject with various human leaders, not quite ready to spill the baby robot beans. 

Gasket, Noggin and Birdy Boo were sort of helping with a sand…thing. Castle? Thing. Scrunching their talons through the wet sand, investigating the feel of everything like toddlers did. There was some surreptitious tasting going on, but the adults were pretty quick to encourage the samplers to spit it out. “They gonna get sand in all the worst places,” Bobby said.

“Oh god,” Will murmured.

“They’re rinseable,” Theresa said. 

“As we have daily proof,” Hoist agreed.

Pingback and Squiggles galloped a circle around Perceptor and bounced to a halt, Squiggles climbing up to Perceptor’s chest to ask, “Why does it go oomp?” Pingback jumped up and down a few more times to demonstrate.

“This is called ‘singing’ sand,” Perceptor said, kneeling down, one hand reflexively curling around Squiggles. “There are more than thirty such sites on this planet where dunes or sandy beaches create such distinctive sounds when disturbed in some way. First of all, the sand particles must be fairly spherical, and within 0.1 to 0.5 millimeters in diameter…”

Will tuned him out, but Bobby listened in sort of dazed fascination as Perceptor went on and on about silicates and humidity and air pockets and granule density and then really dug into the physics. Squiggles climbed back down in the middle of this to join Pingback in stomping around, cocking his helm now and then at Perceptor, still paying some attention. Maybe they just liked the sound of Perceptor’s voice. 

Twenty feet down, Ducky at last looked up from the wonders of the dim blue world and nearly gasped in wonder. Shining, strewn with golden beams, ever in motion, was the surface, the thin film where water met air. He stood still and watched the moving light, hypnotized. 

_All righty, beep,_ Beachcomber sent, _it’s time to head back to land._

_No,_ said Ducky, though even his transmission was laced with odd clicks and clattering. _In a while._

_You’re getting cold,_ Beachcomber said reasonably. _We can come back down once you’ve warmed up._

_Am not._ There was a pause. Ducky stopped and wrapped his arms about himself, but it didn’t help. _Cold,_ he said plaintively, raising his arms as Beachcomber stooped to scoop him up. Beachcomber’s engine revved warm and comforting as he jogged along the lakebed, and in no time they were splashing through the surf and up the beach to Barricade’s open arms and sun-warmed armor. Beachcomber got in on the snuggle, too, which made Ducky giggle. Both adults rumbled their engines and directed their core vents toward Ducky. Between them and the summer sun he was toasty warm in just a few sparkpulses and wiggling to be turned loose.

Right back to the water, Beachcomber loping amiably beside him.

As the sun began to wester, no one wanted to leave, but picnic hampers and totes were packed up, adults transformed and took on passengers and cargo, and the whole troupe headed south, turning onto Highway 12 to begin the trek back to the _Retribution._

Ducky curled unhappily in Beachcomber’s passenger seat, leaning against Theresa’s side. “Pond,” he said mournfully. “Pond.”

“Awww.” Beachcomber bounced a little on his tires. “When you’re a little older, we’ll go to the ocean if you want to, hm?”

Ducky looked at his dashboard with love in his optics.


	3. Thunderstorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little snippet, really. The Horde likes stormy weather in summer. <3

Hail drummed on the dorsal hull of the _Retribution_ , the sound transmitted dully through the metal of the ship, and external armor still tough, but no longer spaceworthy. Thunder had been a low rumble almost more felt than heard for most of the afternoon. They’d kept the front door open to let in the cool, moist breeze. It had been a sweltering day and the hatchlings had been hot and cranky. 

Now, as the afternoon waned and the light took on an almost greenish cast, by ones and twos they came to Barricade, whenever they finished whatever project had been occupying them, until the couch was practically buried under Bear and his softly chirring Horde. Hail pounded harder, chunks the size of walnuts pummeling the hull. The wind howled around the _Retribution_ ’s sharp edges – they had finally closed the door to keep various art projects from being scattered. Lightning blazed across the external viewscreens and the one porthole they could see from this particular couch, and thunder grumbled loud and almost continuously, changing from booming to fiery _CRACK_ ing as the cell moved closer. 

The hatchlings cuddled up with each other on Barricade, warm, safe, not just untroubled by the tempest, but comforted. Storms like this meant Bear would stay with them in a dark, sheltered place, all of them together.

The storm had settled into a steady rain, the sky silvery, platinum in places where the clouds had thinned, letting a little of the sunset peek through. Blades keyed the door open again, fans drawing in deep the fresh air. Prowl came out of the little closet of an office he and Red shared when they were at the _Retribution_ , sipping a cube of energon, joining Blades in watching the rain. 

Thunder rumbled again, growing closer, and then there was a roar and the sound of transformation, and Thundercracker swept through the doorway, sheeting rain and grinning fiercely, optics bright. 

_Subtle,_ Barricade tight-beamed. Some of the hatchlings looked up and peeped at the Seeker.

 _Frag you,_ TC replied amiably, leaning over to nuzzle Bravespark and Noggin. The hatchlings warbled at him; Birdy Boo, Squiggles, Cade Jr., Escape Velocity and Trajectory also wanting nuzzles. He obliged, dripping everywhere, then straightened, and passed Prowl and Blades on his way to the washracks for a towel, returning reasonably dry. 

Prowl went back to whatever he was monitoring in the office, but Thundercracker somehow now had a cube of warm energon in hand and circled back around to join Barricade and his sleepy accompaniment on the couch. Still warm from his flight, Thundercracker gained about half the hatchlings, and they all settled down for a little cuddle before evening energon and recharge.


	4. Fireflies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noggin sees pretty lights!

The others were playing. Climbing the jungle gyms and the adults, racing around on the driveway and the short-cropped field where the cows had been grazing lately. Noggin lay in the long grass not far from the trees, looking up at the stars. Starshine had joined him, both of them quietly watching the lights that twinkled and the two that didn’t and the handful that moved across the sky. Stars, they knew, and planets, and some of the moving ones were airplanes and others were satellites or the ISS, where humans were, way up high.

There were other lights much closer by, Noggin saw. Little yellow-green lights, dancing and blinking, around them in the tall grass. There was a faint sound, beneath the squeaking and happy buzzes of his brothers, and the skreeking of crickets and ribbiting of frogs. A whirr, that went with the little lights. 

Noggin sat up. The lights winked and danced all around them, even under the trees a little bit. One whizzed by right in front of his faceplates and Noggin blinked. The lights were little bugs! Bugs with aft-lights! He watched them, optics wide, as they bounced and spun and dipped, and the lights went on and off. They were pretty! He held out his arms, talons spread, and one landed for a moment on his left arm, blink, blink, before zipping off again. He rolled to his pedes and scrambled toward the _Retribution_ to find First Aid.

“Lights!” Noggin chirped, climbing First Aid to hang on his chestplates and tug, pointing. “Little lights! They go zzzzzz!”

First Aid laughed softly. “Yes they do! Those are fireflies.”

“Fireflyers!” 

“They’re sending messages to each other! See how most of them fly straight and then dip at the end? Those are _Photinus pyralis_ , Big Dipper fireflies.”

“Dipper!” Noggin bounced in First Aid’s arms, trying to dip himself, and First Aid had to hold on carefully. 

“Big Dipper!” First Aid agreed, swooping and spinning and dipping Noggin in a dance. Noggin laughed and laughed, clinging one moment and throwing his arms wide the next. In the years to come, every summer Noggin looked forward to seeing his little lightning-bug buddies, spending as much time in the evenings out with them as he could.

One night, after he and his brothers had emerged from their second molt and were still sleepy, Noggin nevertheless insisted on being carried out to say hi to the fireflies.

“That’s me,” he said, finally, as Barricade turned to go back inside. “I’m Firefly.”

“Fire _flyer?_ ” Barricade Jr. teased, from Groove’s shoulder. Noggin had always liked his version of the word, even though he knew what the “right” one was.

Noggin frowned, thinking. “Fire…flight. I’m Fireflight!”

Groove and Barricade exchanged a look.

“Pleased to meet you, Fireflight!” Groove said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I'm a little off-season now! XD Next "chapter" is a doozy, but I hope I'll get it done before the end of the year! XD


	5. Heat - part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starscream and Jazz emerge from their final molt and are now of age.  
> ...............Now what?  
> XD

“Oh slag me.” Starscream carefully put down the calibrator and stepped away from the lab table. His fans were running high again and both the sound and vibration were getting really irritating. He felt hot and achy all over. He knew this feeling. He hated it.

On the other hand, once this nonsense was done, he’d never have to go through it again. 

He couldn’t force the molt to begin immediately, though. The question was whether he should set aside this experiment, or – and this made him grit his dentae – turn it over to Perceptor until he could resume it himself. Were his hands, and his temper, steady enough to perform the delicate manipulation of the equipment that was required, to his own exacting standards? He picked up the calibrator again. Set it back down. His hands _hurt_. Slag.

Sending Perceptor a detailed datapacket, Starscream fled the lab.

…

Thundercracker lifted an arm and looked under it. Suddenly, a strangling giant squid in the shape of Starscream had decided to collide with him in the hallway and clamp down. 

“Rub my wings,” Starscream whined, burying his face in Thundercracker’s shoulder. 

“You too, eh?” Skywarp had gone into molt cycle yesterday.

“Yes.” So I’m not a prime then, he didn’t say.

“All right, come on down to the oil bath.”

“Oh, I love you.”

“Heh.”

…

Elita ran her hand over the curve of Chromia’s dorsal armor. Hot, like they all were, and stock-still. The rounded posture of molting stage was somehow weirder now that they were nearing adult size. Some of them (Silverbolt! Of all people!) were disquietingly huge, looming in the dim, silent molting chamber, coiled with potential but unmoving. Like unexploded ordnance. 

Literally true in Chromia’s case. 

Elita herself had thousands of years yet to wait for her own last molt, but at least she wasn’t alone there. Ultra Magnus came in, moving first to Springer, nee Squiggles, caressing the dorsal plates as Elita had done, murmuring something softly before moving on, checking his clutchmates, and hers. The development of Galvatron’s first clutch now overlapped Barricade’s Horde. (Interesting, Elita thought, that no one called them what they also were; the Fallen’s.) Windcharger, nee Leeway, and Powerglide, nee Birdy Boo, had already emerged and were out and about, taking up their adult responsibilities; though these were only slight modifications and intensifications of things they had been doing for a couple thousand years as sixth instars. Hot Rod so far gave no sign of beginning the process yet, but it was generally thought that he was simply dragging his feet somehow. 

A week ago, Ironhide had curled up silently, shooting Ratchet a lingering, smoldering look before his optics dimmed and went out. Ratchet had rolled his optics at him – a humanism he’d taken to early and often – but had also put in for a week’s leave whenever Ironhide emerged. Only to find that Smokescreen had already penciled that in, at Optimus’ request. It had taken some soothing from Perceptor and Wheeljack, but Ratchet had settled for _not_ throwing anything at anyone for being nosy, interfering glitches.

“Feeling left out?” Ultra murmured, stopping beside Elita.

“…Yes.”

“Me too.”

…

A few weeks later.

A warm body curled around and beside him. Starscream blinked slowly toward full consciousness, his spark knowing the one beside him was Skywarp well before his optics had onlined. Where was Thundercracker? They had come out of molt, too exhausted to do anything but chug the cubes Thundercracker handed them and flop into recharge right there in the recovery chamber. Skywarp showed no sign of waking soon. 

“Good morning,” First Aid said softly, coming over to take Starscream’s hand and run a light scan. “How do you feel?” Hot Spot approached from the other side and handed Starscream a full cube of mid-grade. Starscream gently disentangled himself from Skywarp and drank it down.

“Better than I have been.” This was so weird. Even sitting on the berth, he pinged First Aid and even Hot Spot (!) as smaller than himself by a not insignificant margin. Well. Hot Spot slightly out-weighed him. Barricade, Optimus and Galvatron came in and…there. That felt right. Galvatron’s sheer mass and even Optimus’ more compact but powerful frame gave Starscream just the right context for his own newly regained size. 

“Well, Starscream,” Galvatron said, clasping his shoulder heartily. “Are you prepared to contend with Barricade for the position of second-in-command?”

Barricade’s optics widened, but he squared off anyway, putting up token resistance. Starscream had been involved with command decisions for his entire 5th and 6th instars of course, so the official hand-off involved little more than a small data-packet containing the few top-level passcodes he didn’t already know, and an updated file on the Earth/Cybertronian sociopolitical weather. 

“Thank Primus,” Barricade sighed. He patted Starscream’s knee and turned as if to scamper off, free at last, but Starscream grabbed his hand and pulled him into a tight hug. 

“Thank you,” he murmured into the top of Barricade’s helm. Still strange to feel Barricade as small in his arms, though Starscream had attained a greater height by the first third of his 6th instar. “Thank you for so ably taking up all the burdens I left you.” Barricade squeezed back, fields broad and warm. 

…

It was a tiny sound, only grudgingly detectable, and quite deliberate. Prowl didn’t online his optics, but he did angle one doorwing up toward the ceiling vent. A clear enough signal that the intruder was now _not_ going to be shot by a startled pair of mechs just barely cycling out of recharge on the berth below. 

“You honestly can’t help yourself, can you,” Thundercracker grumbled into Prowl’s neck. Primus forbid Jazz come in through the Unmaker-damned _door_. 

Jazz had already set the grate aside and swung down, landing lightly on the edge of the berth beside Prowl. Maintenance tunnels, conduits, and ventilation systems – ah, bless humans for their need for fresh air! – were all there primarily for Jazz’s convenience, as far as Jazz was concerned. With exaggerated care, he stepped over Prowl’s waist, insinuating himself between him and Thundercracker and snuggling in, extending his arm in lieu of Prowl’s for TC to rest his helm on. “And now, we wait.”

“Jazz,” Prowl groaned.

“Wait…?” Thundercracker suspected he didn’t want to know.

“Starscream’ll be along any minute,” Jazz said.

“Jazz…” TC groaned.

“What? You must like hearing him screech, to put up with it for so long.”

There was a pause. Each of them struggling with whether this had gone too far. Or not.

“It’s not the screeching per se,” Thundercracker said quietly. Optics lowered. “It’s his expression while he’s doing it.” Although the screeching had a kind of amazingness to it, too. He and Skywarp had often had running bets about extent of pitch and dissonance. And volume. Mmm.

“Oh Primus.” Prowl thunked his forehelm against the back of Jazz’s helm.

“…And the way his wings flutter.”

“I did not need to know.” Jazz squirrelled the fact away for later anyway. 

…

Starscream stood just outside the door’s sensor range, Skywarp fidgeting right behind him. This hesitation was unbecoming, but he fancied he knew exactly what he’d be faced with beyond that door, and he wasn’t certain he knew what he wanted to do about it. Not really. Shouting and arm-waving tended to have the opposite of the desired effect on Prowl. 

He took a step. Signaled the door’s chime. Grabbed Skywarp’s arm.

_If you try to teleport right now, I’ll—_

_I already told you, the protocols haven’t compiled yet…!_

The door opened. 

“Hey, mech, join the party!” Jazz caroled, sitting up and waving over Prowl’s shoulder.

“ _ **WHAT!??!**_ ” 

Skywarp hastily scooted around Starscream and dove in between TC and the wall, wrapping his arms around Thundercracker’s chest and flicking at Jazz’s nearest hip-plate, peeking between Thundercracker’s wing and helm. Prowl sat up, scooting over and swinging one leg over the side of the berth, making room. Retreat was not an option. 

Starscream folded his arms and stayed where he was, torn between making this as public and messy as possible, and…not. He took three steps, let the door close behind him. Technically, he was their commander; officially witnessed and endorsed by Galvatron, Optimus and Barricade. He could _order_ his obstreperous wingmates to dislodge themselves from the Autobots and form up to his preferences. But.

Did he really want someone he’d coerced at his wingtips? Did he really want TC’s spark distracted and torn? He remembered a time when he wouldn’t have cared that much. As long as he’d been feared and/or respected, as long as he got the results he wanted, the methods hadn’t mattered. Now everything mattered and it was tiresome and difficult and some days he wanted to shoot things. With fire. But he was stronger now than he’d ever been. Internal strife could never again be allowed to divide his people, and over the last 7,755 years, the denizens of both Cybertron and Earth had made effective conflict management a top priority. 

Four pairs of optics watched him intently. Two red, two blue. Primus. 

“Well?” Starscream tapped one pedal component. Let them make their arguments, if they had any beyond…beyond trivial attraction.

Skywarp leaned farther over Thundercracker’s shoulder. “Star, TC gave up being Galvatron’s second, gave up helping to rebuild Cybertron, to come here and take care of us when we were small.” They had drunk from Thundercracker’s nozzles, from his energon. From Prowl’s too, and so had Jazz. Did that matter? Should it? Skywarp didn’t know, but it had happened. They had been cared for, in all the thousands of years of their growing up. 

“I haven’t forgotten.” 

“Say something, Teece.” Skywarp nudged Thundercracker’s shoulder. TC shuttered and unshuttered his optics slowly. 

“Don’t mistake my silence for disinterest. You know me better than that.”

Prowl reset his vocalizer. “Structurally,” he said, feeling his way gingerly, “we have an overlapping pair of trines already.”

“Only Seekers trine!” Starscream protested, the words spilling hot out of his vocalizer before he could stop them. Better get a line or three of code on that and soon. He was better than this.

“Starscream.” Thundercracker’s look bordered on chilly.

Starscream waved his arms. “Usually!”

“Double-trining makes sense to me,” Skywarp said. Starscream noted that he and Jazz were now holding hands. Those two had engaged in a lot of…exciting games, of late. (Of late = roughly 6,000 years.) “C’mon, Star,” Skywarp continued, a little whiny, “let’s _all_ be happy together and not exclude anyone.” He gave Jazz an interested look, waggling one optic ridge.

Thundercracker grinned. “Right?”

Jazz swiped an imaginary speck of dust off his left cheek spar, rolling first his shoulders then his hips. All three jets watched this keenly, engines thrumming.

Prowl threw back his helm and laughed, nearly falling off the berth – Starscream darting forward to catch him and thereby finding himself with a warm armful of Strategist. Prowl had a good laugh, heard far too seldom. The general engine thrumming revved several notches higher. 

They were going to need bigger quarters. And a much bigger berth.

…

Quite a while later.

Skywarp came online between one fuel pump cycle and the next, as he generally did. Warm and limber, trying to decide if he was put out by finding himself on an outside edge of the snuggle. Or not. He stretched, enjoying the pull and release on every cable and strut, flaring and settling every bit of armor – all without disturbing the others. He fondly watched them recharge, his…pentad. 

This was so much better than splitting Prowl and Thundercracker up. TC was such an old grump already, how would making him grumpier help anything? Right now, TC rested peacefully, no frown crimping his faceplates. No furrows in Star’s optic ridges, either. Even Prowl lost his seeming of cold shrewdness. Jazz of course was sprawled over everyone he could possibly reach, strutless, lip-components open, just begging to have something dropped in… No, that would probably be a bad idea. They hadn’t been at war for thousands of years, but Jazz still knew things. A lot of them – Skywarp himself included – kept up sparring practice, even if they’d been civilians before. Kept the processor sharp, and let off a little extra steam now and then. 

Starscream onlined one optic. “What?”

“Nothin’,” Skywarp murmured. Then he blinked, as a notification came up on his HUD. He could feel the protocols progressing through their startups. His systems would be set up in another 48 local hours. “Ooh!”

Now Thundercracker was waking, and with him, the other two.

“What?” Starscream asked again, not quite impatient, but lofting an optic ridge in that general direction.

“Two days,” Skywarp said, bouncing a little. “Two days till the Skywarp Express is ready for takeoff!”

“Oh Primus,” Starscream sighed. Once Skywarp’s teleportation was fully online, the combination of him and Jazz…

Prowl’s optics dimmed slightly as his processor went to work. A slow grin spread over his face. Starscream’s optics widened.

“No outside threat will stand a chance…”

“No,” Prowl said. 

Starscream did not cackle. Cackling was unbecoming an Air Commander. It was a fully dignified and slightly menacing chuckle that escaped his vocalizer. Yes. Jazz had a very thoughtful expression on his face indeed. Groaning, Thundercracker reached around to pull Skywarp over and into the pile, cuddling everyone closer. Shenanigans could wait. 

…

Later again.

Empty fuel tanks at last drove them out of their crowded nest. As they trooped through the halls toward the common room, Thundercracker took up the rear to prevent Starscream or Prowl from veering off for some suddenly pressing duty. Might as well get this over with now so they could all return to what passed for normal in the Cybertronian enclave, when almost everyone was on Earth for the Emergence. 

Starscream and Prowl braved the doorway abreast, taking the brunt of the bawdy hoots and cheers of the assembled off-duty mechs and femmes. Prowl ignored them and strode directly to the energon dispensers, while Starscream fluttered a bit behind him. Starscream liked attention – did he! – but usually when he had engineered it himself. Skywarp bounced in with Jazz triumphant on his shoulders, both of them waving and grinning at the crowd as if the whole thing had been their design from the beginning. Thundercracker was starting to wonder. 

“All right, all right, calm down everyone,” TC muttered, pouring himself a generous cube of mid-grade. He looked up to find Optimus and Galvatron approaching them, sparklight in their optics. Dah!

Prowl attempted to flee but Starscream caught his hand and held it, glaring at the August Presences. _Mine_ , and _Oh no you don’t, you’re not upstaging us this time_ well-mixed with _Has anything remotely resembling the concept of subtlety ever even vaguely approached the vicinity of either of your processors? You’re freaking out my Strategist. Stop it._ Starscream filled a cube for Prowl, then one for himself and steered to a corner where they could appreciate the applause with walls at their backs. Thundercracker spoke quietly with Galvatron for a moment, quirking half a grin at Optimus before following.

Skywarp and Jazz did a victory lap around the room, joining them only after collecting the accolades and congratulations of all in the room, plus an update on all the day’s gossip so far. 

“Well,” said Galvatron, eyeing the five helms huddled close as Skywarp and Jazz finally took their seats. “We’ve been told, haven’t we.”

“So it seems,” Optimus chuckled, and ambled over to rejoin Ratchet, Elita and Ironhide.


End file.
